


Irresistible

by theramblinrose



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Irresistible, My Take on Things, fast and loose with canon, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:08:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24134089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theramblinrose/pseuds/theramblinrose
Summary: MSR.  In addition to moral and occupational drives, Mulder had his own personal reasons to want to stop an unknown fetishist before he began to murder attractive women to feed his need for trophies.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 16
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

AN: This is a little like my take on the episode “Aubrey” and, in fact, could be read as a companion piece or “sequel” to that story. It can also be read alone. It’s just a sort of “what if” rewrite of the episode “Irresistible” from Season 2 (which is how far I’ve made it, so far, in my first watch of this incredible show). I wanted to play with the characters, and this is what resulted. Like my story, “Aubrey,” this is likely to have a few parts to it to explore different aspects of the episode. I will warn you that I’m playing fast and loose with canon.

I own nothing from The X-Files.

If you decide to read, I hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think! 

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“It’s a moot point, Mulder,” Dana Scully said. 

Fox Mulder pocketed the keys to the motel room in Minneapolis. It wasn’t the nicest motel room they’d ever been in, but it wasn’t the worst, either. This time, at least, they had gotten one room, with one bed, and they’d done so without feeling like they had to hide that at all.

“You know, the original meaning of moot point would mean that it’s open to discussion or debate,” Mulder offered. “It’s only the more current use of the word—which is almost a vulgarism, really—that gives the word the meaning that things are irrelevant and, therefore, not really up for debate.” 

Scully tipped her head at him. He caught the faintest glimpse of an eye roll. She was doing her best to pretend, for just this precise moment, that she hated him, but he saw through it.

Scully didn’t hate him. She loved him. She’d admitted as much previously, and she still did, at least once a day. He’d confessed his love to her when he’d almost lost her, recently. He’d gotten her back—after a disappearance that had been almost unbearably long, and after everyone else had given up on her—and he’d decided that there was no need in pretending that his feelings for her weren’t what they clearly were. He hadn’t wanted to postpone telling her how he felt. Losing her had really reminded him how quickly things could happen, and how quickly someone you expected to always be there could simply be gone forever.

They’d only just informed the bureau of their romantic relationship which, chronologically speaking, was still in the earliest stages of being official. There was no rule against interoffice relationships, but there had absolutely been a few frowns around the table. It didn’t matter, Mulder and Scully were both accustomed to seeing more than their fair share of disapproving glances at work.

Now they were on another case, together, as partners—of both the romantic and the office variety.

There was more to be told about their story; more to be shared with everyone, but Scully wasn’t ready to share everything yet.

“You’re only concerned with semantics, Mulder, when you’re not getting your way with something.” Scully let herself into the rental car that had brought them from the airport to the motel to drop off their belongings. Mulder walked around the car and let himself into the driver’s side.

“I just don’t think you can call our child a moot point, Scully,” Mulder said with a laugh. “At least—not in the way that you’re attempting to use the word.” 

“At this moment, Mulder, our child is a hormonal fluctuation in my blood work, a newly-registering heartbeat on a sonogram machine, and a…a smudge on a piece of film that you said looked like an alien,” Scully said.

“Your mother didn’t mean that,” Mulder offered, amused, and leaning somewhat in Scully’s direction for her benefit and, hopefully, to bring a smile to her face. “And neither did I.” 

“Mulder, the hearing hasn’t developed yet,” Scully said. 

“I thought you were happy about this. Just—tell me, Scully, if you’re not happy.” 

“You know I’m happy. I’m very happy. We’ve been through this. It’s just that eighty percent of miscarriages happen in the first trimester. Even though there’s confirmed viability, and a heartbeat, there’s still a ten percent chance of miscarriage at this point.”

“That doesn’t make it a moot point,” Mulder contributed. He glanced at the piece of paper where he’d scribbled directions from the motel to the cemetery. He hadn’t yet committed the directions to memory—something he was usually good at doing on the spur of the moment—but it was a straight enough shot. 

“It’s a moot point about how we’re going to tell our families, and when we’re going to make an announcement at the bureau, when I’m only at seven weeks of gestation,” Scully responded. She reached for the piece of paper, pulled it out of Mulder’s hand, and scanned the directions. She leaned up to look through the windshield. “This is Sycamore,” she said. “Turn right at the stop sign.” 

“You win, Scully,” Mulder ceded. “For now, we keep the news of our little alien between us, or we share it on a need to know basis. But I do think we need to start thinking about how we’re going to tell everyone when the time comes.” 

“That’s fine,” Scully ceded. Whether or not she’d be ready to actually discuss it any time soon, Mulder had no way of knowing, but at least she was acknowledging her intention to meet him somewhere near the middle. “You never told me what this case is about.” 

“The desecration of corpses,” Mulder said. “I left the file in the motel room for now.”

“Why is that an X-File?” Scully asked. 

“It may not be, but we’ve been assigned to it anyway. Agent Moe Bocks is meeting us at the cemetery. He’s going to fill us in on his thoughts on the whole thing. He mentioned that he believes that there are some extraterrestrial possibilities, but he wasn’t too specific.” Scully eyed him. He swallowed back his amusement. Most of the time, he could read her expressions like a book at this point. “Do I turn soon?” 

“We haven’t reached the road yet,” Scully said. “We’re looking for Washington. I have to admit, it sounds like you’re already dismissing the involvement of extraterrestrials, and that’s not like you, Mulder.” 

Mulder laughed to himself. He pointed at the road sign ahead.

“Washington,” he announced. “You’re slipping, Scully. I’m not dismissing the possibility of extraterrestrials, but I’m also not banking on this being more than a case of simple grave robbing and corpse desecration.” 

“Trying not to get your hopes up?” Scully teased.

“Something like that. There’s the cemetery. And I’m assuming that—will be Agent Bocks.” Mulder parked the car, and was halfway around the front of it when Scully closed her car door. Agent Moe Bocks met them, hand outstretched toward Mulder, before they could ascend the hill toward the grave where the agent had been keeping a sort of vigil while he wanted for them.

“Agent Bocks,” he said as Mulder took his hand.

“I’m Agent Mulder, and this is Agent Scully,” Mulder offered. He waited until polite exchanges had taken place, and then he gestured toward the grave. Without the need of anything more, Agent Bocks led them up the hill. 

“This kind of thing is terrible,” Agent Bocks lamented, clearly distraught over what had happened. “This kind of desecration when one should be resting in peace…it’s horrible.” 

As they approached, Bocks mumbled a few more things about knowing the victim and her family. He lamented that things like this could happen to good people. For the most part, though, Mulder blocked out the words that his brain instinctively knew had nothing to do with actually solving the case. Mulder looked at the body. The hair on the corpse’s head was clearly cut off in a style not chosen by the deceased. The fingernails had been removed. Those were the most obvious signs of damage done to the corpse.

“Hair and fingernails,” Mulder mused. 

“It’s an abomination,” Bocks mumbled.

“Why would someone do that?” Scully asked. Mulder knew, immediately, that it was something of a rhetorical question. Scully’s background would offer her quite a few plausible explanations for the motives behind this kind of desecration. The very fact that she’d asked the question, coupled with the fact that she’d blanched at least a shade or two paler than usual, told Mulder immediately that she’d been disturbed by what she’d seen.

Anyone, of course, would be disturbed by the sight, but they were more accustomed to such things than the average citizen, who didn’t deal with X-Files on a daily basis, would be. Of course, their seven-week-old little secret had already proven itself to be a critic of their line of work along with certain varieties of food. 

“Are you OK, Scully?” Mulder asked. 

“I’m fine,” Scully mumbled. “It’s just…”

“It’s shocking to anyone,” Bocks supplied, saving Scully from having to offer any kind of explanation of her feelings. Scully backed away, putting a little distance between herself and the corpse, and Mulder thought that might be for the best. 

“It’s shocking, I’ll give you that,” Mulder said to Bocks, “but I don’t know why you would believe there’s extraterrestrial involvement.” 

“The removal of certain parts of the body,” Bocks said. “They say it’s for testing. We’ve seen it in a few local cases with cattle, and there’s some strong belief that it’s tied to extraterrestrial activity. Alien body snatchers.” 

Mulder stifled his amusement. He didn’t want to insult Bocks. 

“I don’t know about the cattle situation,” Mulder offered, “and that might be something to look into at a later date, but I don’t think this is extraterrestrial activity. The removal of certain parts of the body—and in particular of the hair and fingernails—is almost classically the mark of a fetishist. I suggest we search the area for footprints and start working on a profile for this person. Chances are, they’ll do the same thing again. Fetishists are often collectors, and they’re seldom satisfied with the size of their collection for long. Start looking into local mortuaries and morgues. See if they’ve reported any unusual activity or people hanging around. And let us know if anything else comes up.” 

“You’ll be staying in the area?” Bocks asked, following Scully and Mulder down the hill and back toward their car. 

“We’re staying at the East End motel,” Mulder supplied. “You’ve got my number, too, if you think of anything. I’ll contact you as soon as I’ve got a bit more of a profile to work from.”

As soon as they were both in the car, and both buckled in, Mulder felt it was safe to speak candidly with Scully. 

“Are you OK, Scully?” 

“I feel like I should be asking you that. You dismissed the possibility of extraterrestrials without even considering it.” 

“It’s a classic case of fetishism,” Mulder said. “There’s nothing there to even insinuate alien involvement. Please stop ignoring my question. Are you OK?” 

“I’m fine, Mulder,” Scully said. “I guess—I was disturbed. Like Bocks said. I’m honestly surprised that you weren’t more bothered by the condition of the body.” 

“I’ve had time to prepare myself,” Mulder offered. “Bocks told me it was the desecration of a corpse before we left Washington. I’d like us to start putting together some preliminary thoughts on locating this fetishist. Do you feel up to looking for some lunch? We’ll pick something up and take it back to the motel to work?” 

Scully gave him a nod of her head. 

“I’m fine, really,” she said. “And—even though I’m not sure this constitutes as an X-File, I’d like to know that we’re able to stop this person before this kind of activity gets out of hand.” 

11111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

It had just rained. Whether it was the rain on the corpses or some odor rising up from the nearby surroundings, the smell around the bodies was particularly pungent and not at all pleasant. Mulder frowned at the bodies, but he didn’t find their appearance at all surprising. 

Scully had walked rather confidently toward the uncovered bodies, but she’d stopped dead in her tracks as soon as they were both visible. Mulder looked at her, out of instinct, the moment she stopped her forward steps. She blanched, and backed away, putting a little space between herself and the corpses.

“Excuse me,” Mulder said to Bocks. He walked to Scully and, catching her gently by the shoulder, he turned her so that she’d follow him a few steps away from Bocks and the other law enforcement officers that had gathered at the scene. He kept his voice low and his face close to Scully. “Are you OK?” He asked, feeling like he’d asked her that an inordinate amount of times that day. “Is it the…uh…is it the thing?” 

She looked almost relieved. A hint of a smile replaced the expression of slight suffering that she had been wearing. 

“The thing?” She asked. Mulder was pretty sure he saw a twinkle in her eye, for a half a second, over the idea of giving him a hard time. He’d let her have it if it made her feel better. He offered her a smile.

“The thing,” he said. “Our thing. The little alien.”

Scully shook her head and shrugged. 

“I don’t know,” she said. “I mean—I guess it probably is.” She seemed to think about it a second, and then she responded a bit more confidently. “That’s all it is.” 

“It’s OK, you know?” Mulder offered. “A lot of people find this too hard to stomach. Especially when they’re not used to it.” 

“I’ve dealt with corpses before, Mulder. It’s not like I’m not used to seeing bodies,” Scully said with a touch of annoyance. “I’m fine, really. It’s probably just…like you said. I’ll be fine.” 

“You don’t have to examine the bodies,” Mulder offered. “I can handle that.” 

“We’ll need to discuss it,” Scully said. “They’re going to be counting on us to offer a solid profile for this person. And whoever it is? They need to be stopped. Besides—I need to see the bodies for my own report.” 

“There’s no shame in admitting if you need a break,” Mulder said, but he didn’t push Scully any further. She returned, at his side, to look at the corpses. He cast a few glances in her direction. At a look, he could see that her breathing was a little heavy, her eyes were a little wider than normal, and her skin was a little paler than usual—these were all to be expected, though, if she was having a hard time coming to terms with what she was seeing. She didn’t say anything else, and she didn’t back away from the scene, but she also didn’t contribute much to the field discussion of the corpses. 

It was Mulder who ticked off the things that they could immediately see and assume to be true—both victims had had their hair cut and their fingernails removed. The desecration of these corpses was in keeping with the desecration of the previous corpse. All of the corpses had belonged to young women, so it was probable that they were looking for a male who wanted his trophies to come from specific types of bodies. It was likely that the suspect had done this before, so they should begin calling neighboring towns and areas—extending their search—to see if anything like this had been reported elsewhere. 

Mulder offered his other concern, too, to Bocks, just before he left with Scully to go back to the motel and work on their reports and the profile for their probable suspect.

It was entirely possible that this person, whoever they may be, would soon find that there was a shortage of fresh bodies, fitting their specific requirements, to exhume from their graves and desecrate. Upon finding themselves without a ready source of trophies, it was probable that they would begin to murder to feed their fetish. And, once the person had experienced the thrill of killing a chosen person to gather their trophies, it was likely that they wouldn’t hesitate to kill again.

They needed to figure out who they were looking for, and they needed to find this person as quickly as possible. Otherwise, it was highly likely that no attractive woman in the vicinity was safe for very long before the fetishist found the need for a new body to harvest. 

For Mulder, who happened to have a woman he considered quite beautiful as a partner, and as the mother of his unborn child—insignificant as their little one may seem at this point—there was a certain sense of urgency behind making sure that this person was found, and dealt with, before they could begin to claim lives.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Here we are, another piece to this one.

If you’re reading, I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think! 

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“You want to clear that table off? We’ll eat like civilized people?” Mulder asked as he came through the door with the carry-out food that he’d picked up from a nearby restaurant.

He’d finished his suspect profile, with Scully’s help, relatively quickly, and he’d wrapped up his own report in what seemed like a matter of minutes. Once the profile was made, at least with the evidence that they had, it hadn’t taken Mulder long to record his findings and include his thoughts on the case. He’d taken his suggestions in hand, and he’d gone to meet with Agent Bocks while Scully had remained at the motel working on her own field report. 

“I’m almost done here,” Scully said, but she cleared her things out of the way, anyway, and sat at the small motel room table. They could eat like civilized people. They could, even, eat like a family. 

Their relationship was, in many ways, practically brand new. It had happened, really, somewhat suddenly. It had begun quickly, and it hadn’t slowed down since they’d started. Scully had nearly died. In fact, she’d come so close to death that there were parts of her—the few parts that were willing to even entertain things that weren’t firmly rooted in science—that believed she’d actually seen some evidence of what happens when we die. She remembered a dream, which had felt very much like it wasn’t a dream, in which she’d made the decision to come back to this life. 

She still had things to do. She still had a life to live. And, in the dream, Mulder had said that he’d loved her. He’d asked her to come back. He’d asked her to stay. She’d turned back for him. She’d turned back toward his voice. 

Mulder’s declaration of love outside of the dreamlike state had come very shortly after Scully regained consciousness. Life was short and, at that moment, both of them had been swept up in an almost unimaginable and unfathomable wave of carpe diem. Scully had known, upon hearing him speak the words, that she meant them, too—even if she’d never said them before.

Now they said them daily. They said them often. They’d both accepted that their line of work meant that neither of them really knew what would happen from day to day. They wanted to be sure that they weren’t being stingy with their words or their feelings.

And now, it seemed, they had another life to consider.

The baby—the alien, as Mulder had jokingly named it after seeing the sonogram image—had been nothing more than a complete accident. During the time of her disappearance, Scully’s birth control had worked its way out of her system. She’d been so overcome with everything else that she hadn’t thought about renewing her prescription and her habit of taking the pill—something she’d been pretty bad at remembering, admittedly, even before she’d been kidnapped and kept somewhere for months. She could blame the amnesia, if she really wanted to, but the fact of the matter was that she and Mulder had both been careless. As a result of their carelessness, they’d created a whole new life, though it was still in the early stages of its development. 

Scully had only gone to her appointment two days ago to confirm what she already knew—just before they received the case they were currently working—and Mulder had gone with her to be supportive and hold her hand. It was still all sinking in for her. It was still becoming real. Mulder had seemed, honestly, to accept everything far more quickly than Scully had, and she was—often silently—thankful for his support. He was being purposefully silly about the baby. He mentioned it every chance he got. He wanted to talk about things like telling their loved ones about the baby, and he wanted to talk about buying property so that it wasn’t raised in an apartment and it could have a yard to play in. 

And he was grounding Scully, in a very real way, by not grounding himself. The more he talked about it, the more real it became for Scully, and the more relaxed she truly felt.

He allowed her to feel happy about it, too, instead of simply feeling nervous about the facts and statistics that pinballed through her mind. He’d asked her, the moment they’d walked out of her appointment, what she really wanted. He’d told her that he wouldn’t push her in any direction, and he’d respect whatever she wanted and chose, but he needed to know. Scully hadn’t even had to hesitate—not after hearing the heartbeat.

She’d always wanted to be a mother. There were times when she’d thought it was probably unlikely that she every would be, but she’d wanted to be a mother. She’d wanted the right partner, though, for such an undertaking. When she’d first met Fox Mulder, she probably wouldn’t have ever believed that he’d be that man. Now, though, she couldn’t imagine that there would be anyone else with whom she’d want to do this. 

She smiled to herself at the expression on his face as he quickly unpacked the food containers from the bag.

“What did you get, Mulder?” Scully asked. Her stomach growled its approval of the smell. Mulder smiled at the sound, even though it made Scully’s face grow warm.

“The alien approves,” he teased. “Your instructions were so incredibly helpful, Scully, that I knew exactly where to go after I spoke to Bocks and the police department about our suspect. You requested cheesy, yet non-greasy. So, it had to be lasagna.” 

He opened the containers and put one in front of Scully’s seat and another in front of his. They’d already bought drinks and other snacks from a nearby gas station, so Scully got up to get them each something to drink while Mulder emptied napkins and plastic silverware from the carryout bags. 

“This looks perfect, Mulder,” Scully said, sitting down again. “I didn’t know what I wanted, but you did.” 

Mulder looked pleased with the praise, and Scully was more than willing to heap it upon him. He’d been so supportive these last few days that she wanted to give something back to him—anything. And if approval, praise, and the opportunity to be a bit silly about “the alien” made him happy, Scully was willing to indulge him.

“And for the pièce de résistance, garlic bread,” Mulder offered, putting the bag of small loaves of bread between them. Scully hummed her approval and picked one apart with her fingers. “Though I have to admit, if our little alien’s going to continue to be a food critic, it’s got to start being more specific with its expectations.” 

Scully hummed at him.

“But there’s no need, really, when you’re so good at predicting what it wants,” she said. 

“I’m just glad you’re feeling better,” Mulder said, some of his joviality gone for at least a moment. 

Scully’s stomach churned at the very mention of things. She was starting, perhaps, to feel the effects of pregnancy. Everything she’d ever learned about pregnancy was that there were certain things—certain symptoms to be expected—but that every pregnancy was so different that it shouldn’t be surprising to have a whole laundry list of symptoms that were unique to each woman. 

She was certainly beginning to feel the effects of morning sickness. She understood, though, that the baby had no way of telling time and “morning sickness” was little more than a quaint title for the condition of randomly—and sometimes constantly—feeling like one might violently expel the contents of one’s stomach. Her morning sickness began, usually, somewhere around an hour after she woke—as long as she was consistent with her waking time—and ended whenever it seemed the baby got tired of torturing her with ongoing waves of nausea. Mulder joked that it had very strong feelings about breakfast and, for the most part, that seemed to be true. 

Today had taught her, though, that the baby might have very strong feelings about a lot of things.

After examining the body that morning, Scully hadn’t felt like eating much, and she’d done little more than pick at her food. The amount of time between seeing the second set of bodies and consuming the food, though, or maybe simply the fact that seeing the same desecration twice was numbing her a little to the sight, had made her not feel quite as affected as she had earlier in the day. 

The lasagna, honestly, was possibly one of the most delicious things that she’d tasted in her life, and she ate it about as quickly as the hot Italian food would allow her without scalding the inside of her mouth.

“I feel better now,” she said, swallowing her food. “I really do.” 

“I can tell,” Mulder said. “Jesus, Scully, if I’d known you were that hungry, I’d have ordered extra. Here—take some of mine. I’m not that hungry.” 

Scully realized, with a little embarrassment, that she’d scarfed her meal in a quite unladylike manner. More than that, she’d eaten almost half the portion of lasagna—a portion she normally would have divided for a second meal later—and she was still hungry for the rest of it. 

“I’m not taking your food, Mulder,” she said, putting her fork down to try to pace herself a little. “I’m almost full.” 

“Now I’m sorry I said anything,” Mulder said. “You aren’t almost full. You were enjoying it until I had to go and put my foot in my mouth.”

“I think they meant that to be two portions,” Scully said. “Not for me to inhale it in five minutes.” 

“You ate an orange for breakfast,” Mulder ticked off, “and maybe six bites of your lunch. Eat the lasagna. Forget I said anything.” 

“You’re my nutritionist now?” Scully asked, raising her eyebrow at him. He smirked at her. 

“I’m your drill sergeant if I have to be,” Mulder teased. “Eat your food, Scully. Enjoy it. And I’m serious. Eat some of mine, too, if you want it. It’s good, but I think it’s better to you.” 

“Pregnancy can change your sense of taste and your sense of smell,” Scully offered.

“If the alien likes Italian, we’ll have it every night,” Mulder said. He waved his hand like he was ushering Scully back to her food. She picked up her fork and started eating again, but she did try to pace herself. She reminded herself that chewing thoroughly and eating slowly and mindfully was better for her digestion, anyway, than eating like she was at some kind of contest and determined to take first prize. 

“What did Bocks say when you gave him the profile information?” 

“I think he’s still disappointed that I’m not supporting his alien theory,” Mulder said with a laugh, chewing some of his own food. “They’re putting out feelers for anyone who has anything at all to report for mortuaries, morgues, and even EMT and hospital staff. We’re looking for anything unusual. Any recent complaints or even firings and resignations.” 

Scully had helped with some of the profile, so she knew most of Mulder’s theories from their earlier discussions, but there was some information that she was missing. Mulder had fine-tuned some of the profile, himself, when she’d turned to her field report. 

“Why resignations?” She asked.

“Bocks seems to think that people wouldn’t report any kind of misconduct that could be related to necrophilia or fetishism. It would be bad for business. They may keep things quiet and simply fire the employee or allow them to resign. It’s worth looking into anything that’s happened recently.”

“Does Bocks think that these businesses would report that information if they’ve been unwilling to admit why they’ve taken the actions they’ve taken?” Scully asked.

“Nobody knows,” Mulder admitted. “But we’ve got to at least try. Of course, local law enforcement is also beefing up the number of cars they have patrolling and looking for any unusual activity. The biggest problem is that, at this point, we don’t know exactly what kind of unusual activity our suspect may be capable of engaging in.”

“We know that we want to hear about any murders,” Scully said.

“Of course,” Mulder said. “And any attacks at all against women.” 

“Do you think it’s possible our suspect could go after men and women?” 

Mulder shook his head. 

“I feel like he’s showing signs of some kind of a disturbance,” Mulder said, “that possibly comes from a past trauma or psychosis. The bodies have all been women. There’s clearly a fetish, there, and the need to collect trophies, but there’s also a complete disrespect for women and, perhaps, even a violent hatred of women.” 

“Maybe you ought to tell Bocks to keep an eye open for any new hirings, as well, particularly at the places you mentioned, or at any kind of facilities geared directly to serving women. If it’s possible that the suspect recently lost a job because of manifestations of their necrophilia, it’s also possible that they’re seeking employment.”

“That’s good, Scully,” Mulder agreed. “I’ll call Bocks as soon as we’re done eating. Here.” He pushed the garlic bread toward Scully. She thought about arguing with him, or trying to insist that the last stick of bread belonged to him, technically, but instead she simply took it and broke it apart with her fingers. The expression on his face suggested he was as happy to see her eat the food as she was to eat it. “I’m just glad you’re feeling better,” he reiterated. “I was worried about you out there today.” 

“It’s just shocking and disturbing, Mulder,” Scully said. 

“It is,” he agreed. “But it’s like you said, you’re not exactly a stranger to the shocking and the disturbing.” 

“Maybe it’s the alien,” she offered. He smiled to himself, hummed his agreement, and nodded. 

“If you need to sit this one out or take a break…” he offered.

“No,” Scully said. “I told you that I didn’t want things to change. I want to work as much as I can. For as long as I can. I meant that. I feel fine, now. I really do. Maybe I just needed a little adjustment time for—for everything.” 

“Take all the time that you need, Scully, Mulder offered. He pushed himself away from the table. As he stood up, he took Scully’s nearly empty lasagna tray and replaced it with his own. There was at least a half a portion remaining. He could say what he wanted, but he’d been holding back on eating his own food. “Here,” he said. “Eat this.” 

“I don’t want your food, Mulder,” Scully said.

“I’m full,” Mulder said. “I had a big lunch, remember? I don’t want it, and it’s just going to go to waste.” He laughed to himself as he put the tray in front of Scully and left it there, making it clear that he wasn’t debating this with her. He stepped behind her, caught her shoulders in his hands, and kneaded the muscles a couple of times affectionately. Scully hummed her approval, and he worked at a few knots he found before leaning and kissing the side of her face. “Eat the lasagna. For me. Consider it insurance against the fact that you’re probably not going to eat breakfast tomorrow.” 

“Where are you going?” Scully asked when Mulder stepped away from her. 

“I’m going to call Bocks,” Mulder said. “Give him the best chance I can at finding this guy quickly. Until he’s in custody, Scully, there isn’t a beautiful woman around that’s really safe. And that means I happen to have a personal interest in apprehending him as soon as possible.” 

In spite of herself, Scully smiled at the playful wink that Mulder gave her. He was teasing her. He was keeping things as light as he could—something he’d been doing since the very moment they’d found out about their alien—but he was serious, too. Scully knew him well enough that she could practically feel his tension, no matter how far below the surface he tried to hide it.

And, oddly enough, even though she felt fine, she could feel her own body tense. She told herself that it was only a response to Mulder’s feelings, but she wasn’t so sure—and she wasn’t positive that she could blame all of it on the brand new life that she was harboring, either.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Here we are, another piece to this one. 

If you’re reading, I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think! 

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The ringing phone woke Mulder up. He looked around for it, realized that it was on the nightstand, and reached across Scully’s still-sleeping body to get it. He answered it, not knowing what to expect, but hoping for good news. Maybe they’d already found their suspect. Maybe, at the very least, they’d found some leads as to where he might be. Instead, it was Bocks reporting an unsettling discovery. 

Mulder sighed, thanked Bocks for the call, and told him they’d be there as soon as they could. Bocks told them not to worry about hurrying too much. The scene was secure, and the woman wasn’t going anywhere. Mulder ignored the somewhat tasteless joke. He wasn’t even entirely sure that Bocks had meant it as a joke. He hung up the phone and groaned as he settled back into his pillow.

Scully rolled toward him. Her eyes were still slightly swollen from sleep. 

“Bocks?” She asked. Mulder hummed. “I can tell it’s not good news. Another body?” 

“This one appears to be fresh,” Mulder said. “Or—at least fresher than the others. I didn’t get a full report on the estimated time of death. I told him we’d be there as soon as we can get there. The address is out in the middle of the woods.” 

“Who found it?” Scully asked.

“Who finds most of the bodies in the woods?” Mulder mused. “A jogger. It wasn’t well-hidden. I think this was our suspect’s first kill. He wasn’t really sure what he was doing when it came to getting rid of the body.” 

“The problem is that it might be his first kill,” Scully offered, “but it’s not at all likely to be his last. Not if we don’t stop him, first.” 

She leaned up and pecked the side of Mulder’s face affectionately. He turned toward her and caught her lips with his own. She kissed him with feeling and he smiled at her when the kiss broke. He reached out, catching her in his arms, and pulled her close to him. 

She fit tightly against him, and he rubbed his face against hers before he kissed her again.

“We have to go solve a murder, Mulder,” Scully offered.

Mulder groaned at her. 

“Honestly, I’d rather stay right here with you,” Mulder said with a sigh. 

“Me too,” Scully ceded. “But the sooner we solve this murder, the sooner we get back to Washington and, if we’re lucky, we’ll have a couple of days to handle minor things before we’re put on another big case.” 

Mulder laughed to himself at Scully’s efforts to soothe him. 

“We ought to start looking for a house with all that free time,” Mulder offered.

“And here I was thinking that you’d suggest we spend it all in bed,” Scully challenged. She pulled away from him. To play with her, just a bit, he tugged her gently back and kissed her on the forehead before releasing her. 

“I think we should divide our time,” Mulder offered. “Half the time in bed, half the time looking for a house.”

“And work?” 

“We’ll do it in the car while we’re driving from one real estate listing to another,” Mulder said with a grin. 

“Get dressed, Mulder,” Scully said, heading into the bathroom. “I’d like to get this over with before the alien realizes I’m up and decides to make me regret everything I’ve ever eaten.”

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The corpse was mutilated in much the same way as the other bodies had been. 

“The murderer cut the hair,” Mulder said to himself as much as he said it to anyone who was also looking at the body. “Fingernails. Just like before.”

“Except, this time, there are entire fingers missing,” Bocks chimed in.

“It could mean that he’s expanding his trophy case,” Mulder said, “or that he was simply being quick and messy with the dissection of the corpse.” 

“If it was his first murder,” Scully offered, “then that might explain being messy about simply tossing the body in the woods and covering it over with a few leaves—not really seeming to care if anybody found it—but this isn’t his first time trophy hunting. Why would he rush instead of following the same pattern as before?” 

Mulder was keeping a pretty close eye on Scully, and there were several reasons for that. 

Mulder worried that something might be going on with Scully. Whether it was baby related, hormone related, or simply something that could be attributed to the pull of the moon, Mulder worried that she was feeling more uncomfortable or put off than usual by this case. He didn’t mind if she needed to step back. He wouldn’t even mind if she wanted to head back to Washington and leave him here to work with Bocks until they had something. He was only worried about the effects of some kind of stress on Scully’s psyche. 

Emotional discomfort aside, he was worried about her physical discomfort. It was morning, but the morning was creeping slowly toward afternoon. In the few short days, really, that they’d been studying the moods of their baby, together, it was beginning to be something of a pattern that Scully started to feel poorly a little while after she woke up. That lingered, normally, for a couple of hours and faded after she ate something “comfortable” for lunch—usually at an hour that most would consider a “late lunch.” She’d spent that magical time where she was normally half-overcome with nausea standing out in the woods staring at a corpse. She’d looked a little uncomfortable, and maybe even a little sick, a couple of times but, so far, she hadn’t succumbed to the feeling of illness.

Still, if she felt sick or even uncomfortable, she was doing everything in her power to hide it. Mulder had noticed a few facial expressions and even a few quick changes in the way she was drawing her breath, but it was nothing that most people would even notice—especially if they weren’t as accustomed to studying Dana Scully as Mulder had become. 

Mulder’s other reason for keeping a very close eye on Scully was simply the fact that they had nothing on this man and, until they did, they had to simply assume that he could be anywhere, at any time, and he could make a grab for anyone who piqued his interest.

“Maybe it had to do with timing,” Mulder said. “When he was digging up the bodies where he got his previous trophies, he was always doing it at night. There was nobody around. He had a pretty good idea that he had all the time he needed, and he was right. Nobody saw what he was doing.”

“Nobody saw him here, either,” Bocks offered, perhaps picking up what Mulder was thinking. 

“Maybe he knew he had a certain window where he could toss the body without being seen,” Mulder said. 

“And if trophy collecting was going to push him over that time frame,” Scully continued, now following Mulder as well as if they’d been communicating telepathically, “then he decided to do the quick, messy job to obtain the trophies, and figured he’d clean the rest up later.” 

Mulder nodded his agreement.

“One thing we can be sure of,” Mulder said. “Now that he knows what it’s like to murder someone—to choose the woman that fits his fantasy—and to use that person for his trophies? He’s bound to do it again. And probably sooner, rather than later.”

“He’ll be bold. Brave. Running on adrenaline,” Scully mused. “Let us know when the crime scene has been processed,” she requested of Bocks. Agent Bocks nodded and, accepting that they’d seen all they needed from the scene, he started walking them back toward the road where the car they were driving was parked.

“She was a working girl,” Bocks said. “So, we’re going, tonight, to see if we can find anyone who might have noticed her disappearance. That might help us find someone who could have seen her leave with the murderer. There’s a common area where women of that kind congregate at night. In the meantime, we’re going to continue our search. We’re also looking into the local crime files to see if anyone we’ve encountered before might have some of the same habits or similar compulsions.”

“Let us know if you turn anything up at all,” Mulder requested. “Keep doing what you’re doing. We’re bound to find him soon.” 

Mulder walked with Scully back toward the car. This time, he reached it before her and opened the car door for her as a show of affection as much as anything else. She was clearly a little absent as she got into the vehicle. 

“You don’t believe what you told Bocks about finding him soon,” Scully said as soon as Mulder got into the car. “I can see it on your face, Mulder.”

“I believe we need to find him soon,” Mulder said. “But the fact of the matter is that—no matter how messy he appears to have been with everything? We still don’t have a single real lead to go on.” 

Scully looked troubled over that fact, and Mulder couldn’t blame her. Any time they were looking for an active murderer, every moment without apprehending the asshole was another possible life lost. They could practically hear the passing of every moment around them, like they were being followed by a giant, invisible, grandfather clock that loudly counted down the moments that they failed at their job—the moments that ticked forever onward toward some other woman’s violent death.

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Mulder was doing his best to hide his frustration and to keep his cool. He knew that they stood a better chance of solving this if everyone involved was calm. He knew that losing his temper wasn’t going to help any of them in any way. Still, he couldn’t help but get frustrated over the fact that they weren’t getting anywhere at all.

And he had a feeling that it was all getting to Scully, too, since she’d used local facilities to perform an autopsy on the dead prostitute, and she’d come up with no new information and nothing that was really surprising to them. Since the autopsy, Scully had been almost jumpy, and Mulder had begun to attribute her reactions and her slight detachment to the feeling of frustration of knowing nothing, along with the sensation of always having something else hanging over their heads. 

How long did they have until this man struck again? 

They’d already pulled a lineup of possible people from the past crime records. They’d found a prostitute who had claimed to know the woman that was murdered, and she’d positively identified the body—as a woman with no known family or friends, if she’d shared her real name with the woman who was something like a business associate. They’d held onto the prostitute, and they’d questioned her about their lineup. She hadn’t recognized any of the men at all. Her description of the man that her “friend” had left with was pretty abysmal, as well. From the description she gave, they knew that he was a man and that he must be “kind of ordinary,” but she hadn’t positively given them a single trait about the man’s appearance, what he was wearing, or even what he’d been driving. She hadn’t recognized anyone in their second lineup, either—a lineup of people who had been “located” with the parameters created by Mulder’s suspect profile.

It had been two days since the prostitute’s body had turned up in the woods. They had nothing.

Mulder and Scully had both been hopeful when Bocks had called and said they had the man—or they were pretty sure they did. He’d been hauled in for assaulting a prostitute. They hadn’t bothered to call in their somewhat unreliable liaison with the working ladies. Instead, Bocks had decided that the roughing up of another prostitute was reason enough to believe that the man may very well be their killer.

It only took a few moments of talking to the man, though, and hearing his story, for Mulder and Scully, both, to doubt that he was guilty. The assault that had taken place was little more than the kind of violence that sometimes occurred when both prostitute and client had a little too much to drink or had mixed some questionable drugs. 

Mulder walked away from the cell—knowing they hadn’t found their suspect—with his blood almost boiling in his veins out of pure frustration, but he was doing his best to keep his cool. Losing his temper and showing his frustration, after all, wasn’t going to bring them any closer to finding a killer. 

“Have our friend among the ladies see if she can identify him,” Mulder said, as Bocks and Scully walked with him through the jail, “and see if his alibi checks out for the night the other one was murdered. Still, I don’t think this is our guy.” 

“Mulder, may I have a moment to talk to you, please?” Scully asked, catching Mulder’s attention. He turned around. 

“Of course, Scully,” he said. 

“Alone?” Scully asked. She very clearly looked at Bocks to request that they be left alone. Agent Bocks could be a little slow on the uptake, but it didn’t take him long to dismiss himself, telling them that they would find him outside of the cell block. He was going to make some phone calls.

“What is it?” Mulder asked. He noted that Scully was looking—how was she looking? Scared didn’t quite touch it. Shaken wasn’t right. Maybe she simply looked tired and worn down. That was how he felt, underneath the bubbling and boiling frustration. 

“Mulder—I think I could help more on this case if I could come up with some hard evidence to focus on,” Scully said. “I need something—something on which to focus my attention.” 

“What do you mean?” Mulder asked.

“A fingerprint,” Scully said. “DNA from hair. Blood. Skin left behind under fingernails.”

“What do you want to do?” Mulder asked.

“I want to take the body back to Washington,” Scully said. 

“OK,” Mulder agreed. He stepped forward and caught the upper part of Scully’s arms in his hands. He kneaded the muscles. “Listen, Scully—if you want to just…sit this one out? You can.”

“No, Mulder,” Scully said. “I’m fine. I can do this.” 

“I just don’t want you to push yourself too hard or—I don’t want you to lie to me, Scully,” Mulder said. “There’s no shame in it. I’ve seen people with decades of experience fall apart over crimes like these. They’re heinous. A shock to the system.”

“I’m fine,” Scully assured him again. He wasn’t sure how much he believed her tone of voice. 

“I just don’t want you to feel like you have to hide things from me, Scully,” Mulder pressed. “You don’t have to. You never have to hide anything from me. I want you to be honest with me, Scully.” 

“I’m being honest,” Scully said. “I’m fine. It’s just—I feel like we’re a long way from catching this guy. We have nothing concrete and the labs here are below FBI standards. I feel like—if I could take the body back to Washington for a couple of days, I could find a fingerprint, or something substantial, that we could use to catch this guy.”

“Absolutely, Scully,” Mulder agreed, deciding not to press her to confess any kind of distress. He knew her well enough to know that, soon, she’d become annoyed with his persistence. “I think you should go. I think it’s a good idea. Come on—let’s get everything arranged.” 

Mulder did think it was a good idea for Scully to do what she did best, in the place she was most comfortable doing it and where she had every tool that she needed at her fingertips. He thought it was a good idea to put her in her element, and to get her away from seeing one mutilated and abandoned corpse after another. He was certain that she would benefit from focusing on a task, since that always seemed to keep her level and calm. He had the strongest faith in Scully’s abilities, and he was sure she’d find something concrete that would put them on the right track and end this wild goose chase.

And, even though he hated to be away from her at all, and for any reason, he was actually happy to see her go back to Washington because he could rest easy knowing how many miles were between her and the killer that was somewhere, no doubt close by, and would be looking for another trophy woman for his collection.


	4. Chapter 4

AN: Here we are, another piece to this one. 

If you’re reading, I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

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Scully thought that focusing on her work, and putting all her attention on searching the body for clues as to who their killer might be, would take away the uneasy feeling that she had. She thought that practicing absolute focus would alleviate her inexplicable anxiety. And, for a little while, she’d been right. Scully learned a lot about the death of a woman who had been given a name—the one she’d given to her prostitute colleague—that was little more than a Jane Doe moniker, given that they found no records on the woman. Scully learned that she’d been kept cold. She’d likely been submerged in an ice bath. She had, as they’d already noted, lost several fingers, additional fingernails, and a good bit of her hair had been cut off. 

There were marks on the woman’s body that suggested she’d fought against her assailant, but the man had to be pretty strong since he’d clearly overpowered her. She’d been killed by knife wounds to the lower chest and belly—as thought the murderer had been trying to be sure that no blood would get in her hair and soil his trophy. 

Scully successfully lifted a number of prints from the body, and she sent them all off to be analyzed and matched. There were two broken fingernails that the murderer had left behind—clearly not good enough for his trophy collection—and Scully had scraped the matter out from underneth those. She sent that, too, to be tested to find out what it was and if it might contain any DNA at all.

As she was logging the last of her autopsy notes, she was also silently congratulating herself on figuring out what it was that she needed to overcome the uneasiness that had been following her since they’d stood over the grave and looked at the mutilated corpse. There was no need to bother Mulder or anyone else with the feelings that had, clearly, been nothing more than some passing hormonal response or, maybe, even a stress response. After all, there had been a lot of changes in Scully’s life that had all happened very quickly. She had to expect that, eventually, her body would demand that she deal with some of those emotions. It seemed that it had simply chosen to present them as anxiety when she’d found herself without any control, staring at a mutilated corpse.

But she’d taken back control. She’d found something to help stabilize herself. She was finding prints and possible DNA from the murderer. She was going to help get justice for the women that had been mutilated and, in the case of the Jane Doe currently on her table, she was going to get justice for her murder.

So, of course, Scully was nearly floored when she turned around from recording her final notes, to take one last look at the body, and she saw her own face looking up at her in the form of her greying corpse resting on the autopsy table.

The absolute shock and the cold jolt of fear that surged through her body made her physically respond by stepping back a few steps. Immediately, she could feel a weakness run through her body. She could feel herself start to shake. The reaction, violent as it felt to her, was enough to bring her out of the strange hallucination. 

In place of where she’d seen her body, the prostitute’s body had been returned. 

Slowly, Scully’s heart rate and breathing began the return to normal. On shaky knees, and with somewhat shaky hands, she wrapped up everything she had to accomplish in order to close out for the day, and she immediately made two phone calls. 

There were two appointments that simply couldn’t wait.

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Scully’s primary care physician had always been amazing about seeing her immediately. Because she was given to diagnosing her own illnesses and, more often than not, deciding what medication she needed, it was rare that she called him and begged for an appointment. Despite it being the end of his workday, he’d squeezed her in. 

Immediately in the door, Scully had given a blood and urine sample without hesitation. She would have requested tests, either way, so it was for the best that he simply planned to perform them. Then, she’d allowed herself to be weighed, measured for height, and she’d allowed her blood pressure and temperature to be recorded. Lastly, she’d accepted the flu shot that was pushed on her before her doctor ever even made it into the room to see her. 

Still, his examination of Scully had come back with the same diagnosis that she had made—there appeared to be nothing medically wrong with her. He’d run a few tests with her lab work, but the preliminary, simple analysis showed nothing out of the ordinary. Her temperature was slightly elevated, but that wasn’t entirely uncommon during pregnancy. Her blood pressure and heart rate were elevated, but those were often symptoms of anxiety or stress.

He’d prescribed nothing more than a good night’s sleep. 

Instead of staying at her apartment, Scully packed a small overnight bag for herself. She picked up something she wanted to eat—one of the meals from a nearby diner that she liked—because she self-prescribed comfort food for her anxiety problem, and she took the food to Mulder’s apartment. She prescribed comfort, for herself, all the way around. And, though her apartment was a little cleaner, perhaps, than Mulder’s, she liked that his apartment kept her practically cocooned in his scent. She could find him everywhere in his apartment. 

Scully felt better after eating her dinner, taking a hot shower, and slipping into Mulder’s t-shirt as pajamas. She sat on the couch, watching a movie on television with the volume low, and called Mulder. She smiled to herself when he answered.

“Are you OK?” He asked, predicting it was her.

“How’d you know it was me, Mulder?” Scully asked.

“Instinct,” Mulder responded. “Are you OK?” 

“I’m fine,” Scully assured him. “I think I found some fingerprints. Possibly even some DNA.” 

“That’s wonderful news, Scully,” Mulder said. She hummed her agreement.

“They’re being analyzed,” Scully said. “And they’re going to run the prints through the system. I should have the results sometime tomorrow. Then tomorrow night I’ll fly back. I don’t want you trying to drive out to get me. I’ll reserve a car and drive from the airport.” 

“Take your time coming back,” Mulder said. “We’ll appreciate the results as soon as you have them, though. Have them sent directly to Bocks, as soon as you can. We’re still coming up with nothing, Scully. It’s like the man’s invisible.” 

“No new murders?” 

“None yet,” Mulder said. “But you know it’s just a matter of time.”

“I know,” Scully agreed.

“I miss you,” Mulder said. “I don’t say that to make you come back, Scully. I meant what I said. Take your time coming back. Sit this one out if you’d rather stay there. I don’t mean it like that. I just mean—I miss you.” 

Scully smiled to herself.

“I miss you, too,” she said. 

“Yeah?” Mulder asked. Scully’s smile only grew. The relationship was still so young, in some ways, but in other ways she felt like they’d been together forever—like they’d been dancing this dance together for years. Mulder loved confirmation of her affections. He loved for her to make him feel wanted and special. Scully, herself, didn’t require as much of a show, but maybe that was simply because Mulder offered his affections quite freely. 

“Yeah,” Scully confirmed. She cleared her throat and glanced around the apartment. She inhaled the scent that was always specifically Mulder. “Um—if you’re trying to reach me, you can just call your apartment. I’m staying here tonight.” 

“My apartment?” 

“Because I miss you,” Scully said. “I love you,” she added after a second.

“I love you, Scully,” Mulder said with such affection that she couldn’t have doubted him if she’d wanted. “You sound good. You sound better.” 

“I’m OK, Mulder,” Scully assured him. “But I’m tired.” 

“Go get some rest. Sleep well,” Mulder said quickly. “Call when you have something…or if you need anything, you know.” 

“Goodnight, Mulder,” Scully said. “I’m here if you need me.” 

Scully hung up the phone and padded into Mulder’s kitchen. She smelled the milk in the refrigerator and warmed some of it. Transferring the warm milk to a mug, she carried it with her into the bedroom, and she slipped under the cover. She wrapped herself in the blanket that smelled of Mulder, pulled one of his alien conspiracy magazines from the bedside table with which to entertain herself, and sipped her milk. 

She was feeling peaceful and lulled—a sensation she desperately wanted—and she hoped that she wouldn’t be confronted by any unexplained visions of her own corpse while she slept.

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Scully was not a religious therapy attendee. She didn’t have a standing weekly, or even monthly, appointment with her therapist. She did have a therapist, though, and she’d relied on the woman, from time to time, to provide her with a sounding board during certain cases or times in Scully’s life.

Under the promise of doctor-patient confidentiality, Scully had admitted that she was pregnant and that the father of her baby was her partner who, it seemed, was doubly a partner to her now. She’d very loosely explained the nature of the case but, more than that, she’d explained her physical and mental reactions to the case. She’d ended with the strong hallucination she’d had the evening before, where she’d seen her body on the autopsy table. 

Her therapist was a good listener, which was what Scully most liked about her, and she had let Scully say all that she needed before beginning to offer any thoughts. Scully was already feeling a bit lighter by simply having put it all into words.

“You’re a strong person. You don’t like to be perceived as weak. You’ve always thought that you can handle any problem on your own. You don’t like feeling like you need anyone. You’re just barely getting over a serious medical scare, though, and you’re still dealing with the insecurity surrounding your kidnapping. In addition, you tell me you’re pregnant.”

“I am,” Scully said, not sure why the words—entirely innocuous as they were—made her bristle slightly.

Her therapist sensed it and smiled reassuringly.

“You’re feeling vulnerable,” she said. “That’s understandable. There are a lot of things that will compound, at this moment, to make you feel especially vulnerable.”

“What do I do about it?” Scully asked.

“Sometimes we have to simply be vulnerable,” her therapist said. “We have to sit with our discomfort. If you consider each of the things that makes you feel vulnerable, and you explore those things individually, you may be able to find a way to overcome those feelings of vulnerability.”

“I don’t really want to do that,” Scully said. The therapist barely hid a burst of amusement that she swallowed down.

“Hardly anyone does,” she said. “I would recommend a series of sessions with me. Maybe—you consider a weekly session to start and then we could move to something a little less committal as you’re feeling better and more secure.”

“No,” Scully said quickly. She realized she’d been a touch too jumpy and harsh with her refusal. “I just mean—it won’t really work with my schedule. Mulder and I are very busy. We hardly have the chance to close one case before we’re assigned to another.”

“I understand,” the therapist said. Scully got the distinct feeling—though she could admit to herself that it may have a touch of paranoia behind it—that what she understood had nothing to do with what Scully had actually said. “May I ask—if you feel that some of your vulnerability has to do with your partner? You were kidnapped, and you suffered some significant trauma. Do you think that you don’t trust your partner to protect you?” 

Scully didn’t even have to think about her answer.

“I trust him as much as I trust anyone,” Scully said. “More than anyone. I trust him with my life. There’s no doubt in my mind that—that Mulder would protect me if he were able to do so.” 

“That’s good that you have trust in him,” the therapist said. “Could you extend that trust beyond belief that he’d care for your physical well-being?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Could you discuss with him how you’re feeling? If you’re not comfortable coming to me to discuss the things that are making you feel vulnerable, do you feel that you’d be safe to discuss them with him? Would he hear your concerns and support your working through your emotions?” 

Scully’s stomach churned at the suggestion. She thought of Mulder. She could bring his face up in her mind’s eye in a matter of seconds. She smiled to herself just to think of him, but then her throat ached in response to the other thoughts that crowded her mind. 

“I know he’d hear me,” she said. “But—I don’t want him to know how much everything is bothering me. I don’t want him to feel like he has to protect me.” 

“If you feel as safe with him as you say you do,” the therapist offered, “then maybe you should trust him to make that decision for himself. Talk to him about how you’re feeling and let him decide if he wants to hear more, and if he wants to help you through your feelings. If he doesn’t, you can always come to speak with me. But part of building your relationship could very well be trusting him to handle your vulnerability in a way that’s good for both of you.” 

Scully considered it. She nodded her head, considering carefully the words of her therapist. 

She wondered how Mulder would feel if she told him she felt vulnerable and wanted him to sit and talk through her feelings—her twisted, confusing, strangling feelings—with her. She wondered if he’d be overwhelmed by something like that.

Part of her told her that it would be enough to send Mulder running as far from her as he could get—asking for her to be transferred, even, to put more distance between them. 

Another part of her, though, told her that the voice of anxiety and insecurity was only a lying monster, and Mulder would probably relish every moment of working their way, together, through the jungle of her anxiety.

She decided she would tell him everything when there was time. She would give him the chance to, as her therapist said, at least make the decision himself. As soon as they had the time for such trivial and frivolous things, she’d unpack her feelings for Mulder and ask for his help in sorting them out.

For now, though, she had to get back to Minnesota. They had a murderer to stop.


	5. Chapter 5

AN: Here we are, another little piece to this one. 

If you’re reading, I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think! 

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Scully was more relaxed than she’d been in several days. Talking to her therapist had really helped even more than she’d expected. Even though the conversation with the woman didn’t lift any of the literal burden off of Scully’s shoulders, it gave her the opportunity to put a few feelings into words, and it started her thinking about the other concerns that she had. More than anything, though, it convinced her that she was absolutely going to talk to Mulder about everything. As soon as they were able to apprehend the murderer, and they were able to focus on anything except keeping the asshole from murdering again, Scully was going to sit with Mulder and give him the opportunity to decide how much, if any, of her current burden he wanted to help her carry.

Just the thought made her feel lighter.

At the airport, Scully loaded her baggage—she’d only packed enough to get through a couple of days, since she was fairly certain it wouldn’t take them long to find the man now—into the car that she’d rented. She buckled up and, before leaving, called Mulder’s phone. She smiled to herself when he answered.

“Mulder.” 

“Mulder, it’s me,” Scully responded. “You didn’t guess it was me this time.” 

She could hear the smile in his voice.

“I didn’t know when I’d hear from you,” Mulder said. 

“I’m at the airport,” Scully said. “I’ve got a car. I’m driving in. I just wanted to call before I left.” 

“Anything wrong?” Mulder asked.

“No,” Scully said. “Honestly—everything’s feeling pretty right, Mulder.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Scully,” Mulder said. From his tone of voice, Scully knew that the words were true. 

“Listen, Mulder, I’m sorry I didn’t call you back when I got back to my office from arranging the transfer of information,” Scully said. “I was just pressed for time, and I needed to get my things and get to the airport. One thing led to another and I just—lost track of time. I hope you didn’t worry.” There was a tick too long of silence on the other end of the line. “Mulder? Are you that angry?” 

“What? No,” Mulder responded quickly. “No—no—I’m not angry, Scully. It’s just—what are you talking about?” 

“You called while I was handling the lab information,” Scully said. “You called the secretary. She gave me the message that I got a call from Minnesota.”

“It wasn’t me, Scully,” Mulder said. “I haven’t called at all. We’ve been working since your information came through.”

“Maybe it was Bocks,” Scully said.

“Bocks has been with me,” Mulder said. “I think we’ve got a match on these prints you were able to get. Great work, Scully. They actually belong to someone who was picked up for possible assault, but the charges were dropped.” 

Scully’s stomach rolled a little, in question, over who might have called and asked for her—someone who didn’t know her direct line or, for some reason, wasn’t using it. Someone from Minnesota. Scully settled, finally, on the fact that it was probably one of the lab technicians. There had likely been some kind of temporary issue in receiving the files that were sent over and they’d tried to call Scully. She hadn’t called them back, and they’d resolved the issue.

The important thing was that they were going to be able to pick up the murderer.

“That’s great, Mulder,” Scully said. “Listen—I’m going to drive in. I’ll be there in about forty-five minutes.” 

“Take your time,” Mulder said. “We’ve got an address, so we’re going to raid the apartment. See if we can’t stop this guy.” 

“Be careful, Mulder,” Scully said. “I love you.” 

“Hey—I love you, too,” Mulder said. “I’ll see you when you get here. Who knows? We might have already tied things up, and you’ll be back on a plane tomorrow.” 

“I’ll hope for the best,” Scully said. She quickly said goodbye to Mulder, hung up the phone, and headed to the small town that was close enough to the outskirts of Minneapolis that the residents didn’t bother telling people where they were specifically from until they’d established that they had some knowledge of the slightly rural area beyond the city limits.

The drive was easy enough. Once she was out of the city, it was almost a straight shot through long, dark, country roads that connected the small town to the much bigger urban area. Scully saw a few other vehicles—mostly pickup trucks—on the road here and there. When she fell into almost total darkness, she had to force herself to focus on the road and not to allow her mind to drift to all the things she couldn’t help but think about. 

The car seemed to practically appear out of thin air as it pulled up behind her. Scully realized, of course, that the car hadn’t appeared out of thin air. She’d just been letting her mind wander—thinking about how she and Mulder might spend a few days, if they could negotiate for some of the time off that they were more than owed—and she’d missed its approach in her rearview mirror until it was practically on her rear bumper and its headlights were blinding her. 

Scully put her hand up to try to block some of the glare from the lights. With nothing but blackness around her, she couldn’t see the road with the light blinding her. It was too harsh for her eyes. In the time that she’d let her mind wander, she’d slowed down below the speed limit, but she lifted her foot off the gas a little more, now, to allow the car to decelerate and, hopefully, to convince the car behind her to pass her on the practically abandoned stretch of road.

When Scully realized that the car behind her didn’t seem to be slowing down, she hit her gas to speed up a little and she touched her horn in case the driver had fallen asleep or, like herself, had let their mind wander. They may not even realize how close they were to her back bumper. 

The car didn’t stop coming, though. In fact, the driver sped up. Scully’s heart was racing, but it felt like it stopped when she felt the first bump of the car hitting her car. She held her breath, grabbed the steering, wheel, and braced herself—still not sure what exactly was happening. Her mind raced a thousand miles a minute and she was surprised at how many thoughts it could process at once—even more than it usually seemed to process—when she was panicking. She worried that the car would hit her again, because she could already see, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it would do just that. And she worried about her baby just seconds before her mind offered her the quick flash of information that it was something unusual for her to have to worry about such a thing—and it was unusual that she should think of that before she worried about her own, individual safety, in the event of a crash.

She hardly had any chance to think too much about it, beyond the rapid thoughts that seemed to happen when it felt like time stood still in the face of an emergency, because the car rammed her again…and again. Scully did her best to keep the car on the road, but finally she lost the fight. Her heart slammed hard in her chest as she went off the road. She made impact with a tree and felt her body’s response to the hard jerk. She felt the hot, rough, punch of the airbag—and then everything went black.

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“I don’t think there’s any doubt that this is our man,” Mulder said, holding up the fingers frozen in an ice cube tray that Bocks had offered him. “Get this to the lab, and let’s run prints on everything. At this point, I think it’s really just about gathering evidence.”

The room they were standing in was decorated like a room in a funeral home. All around them were wreaths and other such funereal decorations. Fox watched as Bocks’ men started dusting the place for prints. He walked through the apartment, imagining the prostitute they’d found. Her final hours had been spent here. He couldn’t imagine the horror she would have felt to see a room, like the bedroom, laid out for a funeral.

Donnie Pfaster rented the apartment. He was new to the area, according to what he’d told the landlord, but the landlord hadn’t really been able to supply much more information about the man. At least they had a vague description, though, to help them locate him. 

“We need men to stay here in case he comes back,” Mulder said, “but we need to get the word out, too, about who we’re looking for and what this guy looks like. He was brought in for that assault at the school. That means he’s hunting again. We don’t want to run out of time.” 

Mulder was addressing Rick Reynolds, one of Mocks’ strongest deputies. He’d barely finished speaking when Bocks, who had stepped out to take a phone call, came back inside. 

“Mulder—that was Deputy Warren,” Mocks said. Mulder could already tell, from the expression on his face, that what he had to say made him uncomfortable. Mulder’s gut instinctively responded. 

“Another body?” Mulder asked.

“No,” Bocks said. “Warren got a call out on the highway from someone heading into the city. A car was in the ditch. Must have run off the road and hit a tree. Airbags deployed, but there was nobody in the car. He ran the tags. It’s the car that Agent Scully rented at the airport.”

Mulder felt his head swim. He shook the sensation out of his head and started for the door. 

“Get men looking for any clues we can get as to Pfaster’s whereabouts. Keep someone here to apprehend him if he comes back,” Mulder called out to any of Bocks’ men who might be listening. “I’ve got to get to that car.” 

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Mulder felt like he couldn’t breathe. Scully’s bag was there—in the foot of the back seat because she wouldn’t have bothered to put it in the trunk. Her purse was there, slung into the passenger’s side foot from the impact. She wasn’t out walking down the highway, alone, at night, without even carrying her purse. Still, they’d sent at least one person combing the woods to see if she’d somehow wandered away with a concussion, unaware of what she was doing. 

“She was run off the damn road!” Mulder yelled, touching the damaged plate. “There’s paint here from the other car. In the dents. I want this paint analyzed immediately. I want to know what car it was that ran her off the road, and I want to know where we can find it.” 

He knew that he was being loud. He knew that he was making angry demands. He knew that Bocks was staring at him, wide-eyed, with more than a little concern on his face.

But Mulder’s heart was breaking and Bocks couldn’t understand that. He couldn’t understand the extreme tightness in his chest. He couldn’t understand the anxiety and the flashes that ran across Mulder’s mind as he worried that Pfaster would find Scully. That Scully would wake up in some sick funereal room like the one they’d seen. That they’d get a call that her body had been turned up, mutilated and tossed like garbage onto the side of the road. 

“I want answers,” Mulder said. “And I want them now.” 

Bocks didn’t argue with him. The man couldn’t—it wouldn’t have done him any good. Instead, he started scraping the paint off to be analyzed while Mulder transferred Scully’s things to the car they’d take back to town.

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Mulder wasn’t going to accept Bocks’ apology or his explanation that there was simply no way to narrow down the paint to an exact car. At any rate, Donnie Pfaster hadn’t owned a car of any of the makes or models that had used the paint in manufacturing.

“We don’t just give up,” Mulder said. He couldn’t give up. Scully was, at that very moment, possibly in the grasps of this killer. She was pretty good at defending herself, and he’d seen her hold her own against some pretty sizeable opponents, but there was no telling what condition she was in after the wreck or what Pfaster was willing to do to her. “He has to have some family. He has to have some ties to the area. Run a check for anyone related to him.” 

Bocks did as Mulder was told, like a man who was helpless to do otherwise. The computer was painfully slow, in Mulder’s opinion, but eventually it came back with information. 

“He had a mother,” Bocks said, “but she’s deceased.”

“Where’d she live?” Mulder asked.

“Last known address was an address in Florida,” Bocks said. “I’m sorry.” 

Mulder gritted his teeth. His jaw was aching from the repeated action, and his head was starting to pound. He didn’t want to hear those words—not ever again.

“What about if that was a summer home? A vacation house? Run a search for any property she might have owned,” Mulder demanded. Bocks complied, again. 

“She had a house here,” Bocks said when the computer returned the information. “I know this place. It’s been up for sale for a while. It’s just outside of town.” 

“Run a search to see what cars were registered to her,” Mulder said. 

There was a bit of a dance in Bocks’ actions as he entered the search information. He was running on the adrenaline of feeling closer to an answer. Mulder was practically shaking with anticipation.

“We got a match,” Bocks said. He looked exhilarated. He smiled at Mulder.

“He inherited the car, and now he’s using it and his mother’s old house,” Mulder said. “Quick—call a team. We’ve got to get to that house.”


	6. Chapter 6

AN: Here we are, another piece here. 

I expect for there to be one more piece here. Then, I’m also planning a one shot/short story that will follow after this that’s some of the aftermath with the couple. Like many of my stories, it’ll be standalone possible, but also interconnected.

If you’re reading, I hope you enjoy! 

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Scully’s first realization was that her head was pounding. As she opened her eyes, she realized she was in a room—a room she’d never seen before. She was handcuffed and gagged. She was slumped in a corner, her head against one wall, seemingly discarded there and forgotten. Her muscles ached when she moved at all. For a moment, she maintained calm, but it didn’t last long. Soon, her heart started to pound and her breathing sped up.

She didn’t have to know where she was or how she got there. By instinct, alone, she knew who had put her there. 

Quickly, and with some flicker of foolish hope, Scully checked for her gun. It was gone. She twisted the cuffs around her wrists, checking for weaknesses and looseness. They were tight. She wasn’t slipping her hands out of them. They were real, too. She didn’t know if they were her own cuffs or if they were someone else’s but they were real police-grade cuffs—she was strong enough that she could have broken a standard set of civilian novelty cuffs, especially if she was fighting, as she was, for her own life and the life of her baby.

For one brief second, despair, grief, and overwhelming sadness flooded Scully’s system. She was trapped. The killer was around here, somewhere. He was going to kill her. He was going to mutilate her body. Mulder was going to find her, like that, and he would live with the image forever burned into his mind.

Scully only allowed herself a second of indulgence to her darker feelings. Then she looked around, trying to figure out what she should do. She couldn’t just sit here, slumped on the floor, aching all over, and wait to be murdered.

Scully worked her way up to her knees. Somewhere, in all of this, she’d lost her shoes. She was just about to put a foot up and force herself into a standing position, when she was suddenly not alone anymore. For a half a second, she thought she saw the devil, himself, looking at her. Almost immediately, though, she saw a regular man in place of the demon she’d seen flash before her eyes—more of the stress-induced hallucinations.

“You’re awake,” he said, far too cheerfully for someone she knew was moments away from murdering her. She searched his form quickly with her eyes. He wasn’t carrying a weapon openly, and she didn’t imagine that he’d bother with a concealed weapon in this kind of situation. He didn’t intend to kill her just yet. More than likely, he didn’t intend to kill her in this room. “I hoped you’d wake up,” he said. He reached a hand out and, in her instinctive need to scramble backward and away from him, Scully lost any ground she’d gained and fell hard, back onto the floor. He laughed, quietly, to himself, and moved forward. The hand came toward her again and he stroked her face, brushing her hair back. “You took a pretty bad hit on the head. You’ve got a little blood in your hair. Don’t worry, though, I’m running a bath for you.” 

Reality slammed around inside of Scully. She remembered the corpse. She remembered the autopsy showing proof that the body had been submerged, more than likely, in a cold water. She tried to scramble backward—to simply scramble away—but it was to no avail. She was soon in the corner and there was nowhere to go. As he reached for her, hauling her up to her feet, Scully recoiled. She saw him as a demon, straight out of a nightmare, for a split second, again, before he looked like a human. Hitting her head had increased the frequency and strength of her hallucinations, and now wasn’t a good time to have to deal with such things.

Fighting the man, at this moment, wasn’t going to work. He outweighed Scully a great deal, and he wasn’t handcuffed. He had the advantage. She decided to bide her time as much as possible. She’d watch for weaknesses. Everyone had weaknesses. 

Scully’s focus on the hallways and rooms helped calm her a little. Her focus on the mannerisms of the man, and even on the few words that were almost saccharine in quality, helped to calm her. She had a purpose. She had a mission. She only needed to figure out how she was going to get the best of him—how she was going to get away. 

Her panic didn’t return until he dragged her into the bathroom. He left her, for a moment, near the door and sat down on the edge of the tub. There was a large selection of bottles and gels. The bathing of the body—the treatment of his trophies—this was clearly one of his favorite parts of the whole sick process and Scully, now, was watching it all unfold like some kind of horror movie. Despite her efforts to control it, she could barely breathe around the gag, and her heart was pounding wildly in her chest. The man turned off the water that had been running. Enough water was in the tub that it would have spilled over onto the floor with the addition of a body. He picked up a bottle and caressed it almost lovingly.

“Is your hair treated?” He asked.

With those words, reality slammed into Scully. They served as the catalyst that she needed. She no longer cared if there was logic behind her actions. She would settle for pure animal instinct—the need to flee, to fight, and to survive—if that was what it took to escape this man. 

The few feet between herself and the tub would give her a small advantage. The fact that she was barefoot might give her another. He still had to stand up from the side of the tub. She counted that as an advantage. Of course, her greatest disadvantages were the fact that she had no weapon, she was handcuffed, and she didn’t know the layout of the house. The odds weren’t exactly in her favor, but she’d take any odds at all at this point.

Scully took off running as fast as she could. She didn’t go back the way she’d come because she already knew what lie in that direction. She ran in another direction, choosing a different door to slip into an unknown room.

“Don’t do that,” the man said, with the same tone as if he were only lightly scolding a child that was mildly misbehaving. “You’ll hurt yourself.” Scully ignored him. She weaved through the rooms—this was an old house. She could tell that immediately. It was made up of small rooms with sharp angles and narrow hallways. It was a veritable labyrinth. A little knowledge of old homes, though, told Scully that this many bedrooms without any other sign of a living room, dining room, or family room, meant that she was upstairs. She tried to stick to hallways, searching out a staircase. “I know the house. This won’t do any good. You won’t get anywhere.” 

Scully recognized some modicum of truth in what the man said. She didn’t know the house. She didn’t know how to get out or if it was even going to be possible. For as much as she knew, she may find a door only to find that it was bolted shut in some incredible way. Still, she had a will to survive that was driving her. 

Scully could hear him coming. He was taunting her with words. He wasn’t rushing, and he wasn’t frantic. By now, he probably had a weapon. Scully ducked into a room, slipped into a closet, and pulled the door shut. The house was old and the wood was swollen. The door thumped quietly, but Scully knew, in her gut, that he’d hear it. She scrambled around in the closet, looking for anything she might use against him. There was relatively little in there, and she couldn’t see well in the darkness, but she did find a can. It was an aerosol can, and she could only pray that it would work after however long it had been in the closet that was saturated with the scent of moth balls.

Scully heard him outside the closet, taunting her. He knew where she was. She listened to his movements over the sound of blood rushing in her ears, and she prepared the can. When he pulled the door open, she sprayed the contents of the can directly into his face, blinding him at least temporarily. She ran for it again, but he wasn’t stopped or slowed too long. He gained on her, just as she found the staircase. He grabbed for her, and deciding that she had not other hope, she lunged back at him in an attempt to wrestle the gun from him that he was reluctant to use—not wanting to damage his trophy, perhaps, accidentally.

He was bigger than her, and it was easy for him to overpower her. Still, Scully had the benefit of pure adrenaline and determination on her side. They went down the stairs together, rolling one over the other, and Scully determined not to focus on the pain of the fall. Instead, she threw herself, tenfold, into the work of trying to get the gun away from the man who was determined to kill her.

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They rammed the door without hesitation and without announcing themselves. The house was supposed to be abandoned. It was up for sale, and it theoretically stood empty. Pfaster’s car outside, though, was an immediate give away that their hunches were correct. The sound of some kind of struggle met them outside and they hadn’t wasted any time getting inside to break things up. 

Immediately, Mulder had rushed in with his weapon drawn and Bocks and his men had spilled in right behind him. Outside, the yard was lit up with the flashing lights of squad cars and an ambulance, their sirens silenced.

Mulder’s relief at seeing Scully alive was so overwhelming that he felt it all the way to his knees, which had felt a little like Jell-O for the past half an hour or more. The interruption of everyone coming in stopped the fight that was clearly taking place. As Bocks men swarmed Pfaster to get him under control, Mulder found Scully in the madness and pulled her to her feet. Someone had already pulled the gag from her mouth, but they’d left the cuffs. Mulder produced his own universal key and unlocked the handcuffs on Scully’s wrists. He wrapped her in his arms, he took a moment to get his own breath, and allowed his mind to calm and to communicate to his body that she was breathing.

“We need paramedics in here,” Mulder called out the door as he moved closer to it, still holding onto Scully.

“No, Mulder…no,” Scully stammered, squirming a little to fight against him. 

Mulder pushed Scully away enough to look at her. Her face was bruised and, likely, much more of her was bruised. She had rashes and burns from the airbag and, perhaps, even from the old rug where she’d been fighting Bocks. There was some dried blood, here and there, from possible scratches or scrapes.

“Hold off a minute,” Mulder called out to the paramedics. He could see on Scully’s face that she was distant. Physically, she was in his arms, but mentally she wasn’t there yet. She might not be for some time. They were no strangers to seeing shock on other people’s features, and Mulder identified it quickly enough. “Scully—don’t you want to let the paramedics have a look at you?” 

“No…I’m…” Scully started, squirming again. She stopped, though. Mulder’s stomach tightened. He thought he understood. He wasn’t going to push her too hard right now. Not with the shock. At least he could try to reason with her a little. 

“Scully, just answer me this,” Mulder said. “Are you all right?” 

She looked at him blankly. A flash of recognition—real recognition—came to her eyes for a second. Her chin quivered. She shook her head gently and rushed forward, wrapping her arms around him. 

“No, Mulder, I’m not,” she said. 

Mulder wrapped her tightly in his arms. He held her, letting her cry a little, but knowing that there would naturally be more tears before the shock subsided entirely. 

“Scully—you can either see the paramedics,” he said, not breaking the hold he had on her, “or you and I can go in the car to the emergency room and get you completely checked out. There’s nothing behind door number three, Scully, so which do you want. Paramedics or—we’ll leave and go to the emergency room?” 

Scully pulled away from him. She stared at him with damp eyes and nodded her head. He didn’t even ask what she meant. He didn’t need to. He already knew where the hospital was. They’d passed it on their way to Pfaster’s house. 

“Bocks—I’m taking your car,” Mulder said.

“We can handle everything here,” Bocks offered back as a response.

Mulder wrapped his arms around Scully, fully aware of the shock she was likely suffering, and shielded her as much as he could from the voices and bodies around her. When they stepped down the porch steps, and onto the gravel driveway, he noticed her instinctive jerk and looked down to realize that the reason she seemed shorter, and easier to tuck in tight against his chest, was because she was missing her shoes. She didn’t say anything, one way or another, and Mulder didn’t make her. He simply picked her up, bridal style, and carried her to Bocks’ car. He sat her down to open the door for her, helped her into the car, and helped her buckle her seatbelt when he got in and she seemed to have forgotten that she needed to do such a thing.

It was almost a straight shot to the hospital and, while he drove, Mulder didn’t force Scully into conversation. Instead, he simply reached a hand over and held her hand—doing his best to remind her that, whatever she was going through mentally or emotionally, he was there.


	7. Chapter 7

AN: Here we are, the final piece to this one.

I’m probably going to be doing a little short story, soon, about the few days that will follow this. I’ll likely write it as a piece that could stand alone, but also could be a follow up to this one. 

According to my plans, just like this one followed “Aubrey,” I’ll probably be continuing a little with some different takes on episodes in this universe. 

At any rate, I hope you enjoyed this little story! If you did, and you have time, don’t forget to drop me a line to let me know if you’d like to see more! Thanks! 

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Mulder had always been better at handling things that were of a personal nature to him by forcing some detachment. Otherwise, he found that he was often too passionate—at least for the comfort of those around him—because of his sense of urgency to have answers to his questions and solutions to problems that directly affected him. 

He was able to keep his calm, in this situation, only because he knew that Scully needed him to do just that. She was in shock, and after what she’d been through, she didn’t need more stress from having to try to do deal with his emotions through a veil of her own overwhelm. Mulder could touch Scully. He could hold her hand in the car. He could cradle her in his arms as he carried her toward the entrance to the emergency room. He could reassure himself, in every tactile way, that she was fine. She may have a little physical healing to do that they didn’t know about just yet, and she may have a decent amount of emotional healing to do, but she was fine. She was going to recover from this. 

Whatever it was that they had to overcome together, they could do so as long as it was certain that Scully was going to be there, and was going to be fine. 

Scully didn’t speak, and Mulder didn’t push her to speak. There was no need for it. He filled out her forms as best he could and showed his badge to offer all the additional information that the desk clerk really needed in the practically empty emergency room. They’d given Scully a pair of disposable shoes as soon as Mulder had carried her through the door—a hospital safety measure—and had run Mulder through a quick gamut of questions. A mention that she’d been in a car accident, had been kidnapped and assaulted, and was seven weeks pregnant was enough to get them immediately whisked into a room that was actually quite private in comparison to many of the emergency room spaces that Mulder had been inside before.

“Everything’s going to be OK, Scully,” Mulder offered, quietly, while she sat on the examination table and he stood in front of her, both of them waiting for the doctor. The nurse who had taken Scully’s vitals upon coaxing her onto the table had assured them that the wait wouldn’t be very long. Mulder held Scully’s hands in his. He worked her fingers, giving her the physical grounding that would help to bring her back, he hoped, sooner rather than later, from the psychological and emotional shock she was suffering. He released her hand, once, to brush her hair out of her face, but her grimace and her physical pulling away from him made him desist with that action. It wasn’t meant for him, and he knew that. She had to work through this, now. The only thing that he could do was support her while she did.

“I’m Dr. Ramirez,” the doctor said, coming into the space. He was an old doctor, and Mulder got the feeling that he had seen more than his share of time on the front line. “What do we have?” 

“We’re FBI. She’s Agent Dana Scully,” Mulder said. “I’m Agent Fox Mulder. I’m her partner—business and…personal.” 

“I see,” the man said. There was nothing disapproving in his expression. In fact, he smiled. Mulder stepped aside. Scully flinched and pulled away when the doctor touched her throat, but she seemed to relax, at least a little, after making eye contact with him. When he touched her hair to try to trace the source of some dried blood, she jerked away somewhat violently. “What’s happened to her?” 

“There was a car accident,” Mulder said. “She was kidnapped by a murderer we’ve been looking for. Taken back to his home. I’m not sure about everything that happened there. They were fighting when we arrived.”

“I woke up in the house. I fell down the stairs running from him. I fought with him,” Scully said. Her voice was somewhat robotic. She was reciting information, but at least she was speaking. She looked away from the doctor, and she made clear eye contact with Mulder. He wondered if she was coming around. 

“Did he hurt you in any other way, Scully?” Mulder asked. The doctor was quiet for a moment, clearly deciding that letting what was working continue to work was the best approach there was. Scully’s chin quivered. Tears rapidly filled her eyes. She looked away, but then she looked directly at Mulder and held her arms out to him. He didn’t need more prompting than that to step between her and the doctor and let her embrace him. He embraced her back, knowing full well that letting her feel her emotions would be the fastest way toward getting her back entirely.

“I want to know about the baby,” Scully said, rubbing her face against Mulder’s shoulder. “I need to know.” 

Mulder just glanced at the doctor. 

“There’s an ultrasound cart on the way,” Dr. Ramirez offered. “We’ll absolutely have some information for you in a few minutes. There’s—uh—little more I can do in this case than treat Agent Scully for injuries and check the status of the—uh—fetus.” 

Mulder nodded his understanding. In a perfect world, they could save the alien, no matter the trouble it was in, simply because Mulder and Scully had already started to grow attached to it. In the real world, though, it didn’t work like that, and the only hope for survival something that small and frail actually had was the natural protection of its mother’s body. Mulder simply tightened his hold on Scully, letting her cry into his shoulder as much as she wanted while they waited. 

“Scully,” he said, keeping his voice low so as to not startle her, “did he hurt you in any other way? Did he do anything else to you?” 

“No,” Scully cried against him. “We fought. I fell down the stairs.” 

“Ask her if she’s in any pain,” Dr. Ramirez said, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s responding to you, but she doesn’t yet feel comfortable talking to me.”

“You hear that, Scully? Are you in any pain?” 

“Everything,” Scully responded. 

“She’s a medical doctor,” Mulder said, practically whispering to the doctor. “That’s not her typical response to medical questions.” 

“Maybe this isn’t her typical medical situation,” Dr. Ramirez offered. “It appears she’s suffering from a state of emotional and psychological trauma response. Shock.” 

“I gathered that back at the house,” Mulder offered. 

“Agent Scully?” Dr. Ramirez said. Mulder felt Scully tense. “Young lady? I want to help you and your baby. Can you help me help you?” 

Scully relaxed. After a moment, she pulled away and sat, red-eyed and damp-faced, looking at the doctor. 

“I’m sorry,” she offered. 

“There’s no need to apologize,” he assured her. “May I examine you? Clean and bandage those abrasions?” 

Mulder appreciated the man’s gentle approach. Maybe it was the whole kidnapped and assaulted by a murderer part of the explanation that made him decide that it was best to handle things slowly and purposefully. Scully responded well to it, because she handed herself over to the doctor.

“Probable mild concussion,” she offered, while the doctor examined her and worked to clean the obvious scrapes on her face. “Some joint stiffness and muscular soreness, but…I don’t think anything’s broken. Minor abrasions and contusions.” 

Mulder smiled to himself. She was coming back around, slowly but surely. The doctor examined her carefully, hitting all the high spots, but he appeared to accept her description of her injuries without too much question. She answered most of his questions in short, necessary responses, but she clearly wasn’t in the frame of mind, just yet, to elaborate on much.

“Please,” Scully said, even as the doctor was finishing his examination of her, and at the very moment when someone entered with a mobile ultrasound unit, “I want to know about the baby.” 

“Right away,” he assured her. “Agent…”

“Mulder,” Mulder supplied when he was sure that the doctor was speaking to him. “Are you comfortable helping Agent Scully out of her pants and underwear?” 

Mulder swallowed back some amusement. 

“There’s usually dinner involved,” Mulder teased. He saw the slightest flash of a smile on Scully’s lips, and her cheeks reddened. He was thrilled to see some response from her. He did help her, not that she needed much help. She was coming back around, slowly, and she was extremely driven to do anything and everything necessary to prepare to find out more about the baby. 

The doctor set up foldable stirrups from the table, and the ultrasound technician helped him get things going. Mulder stationed himself next to Scully. He held her hand and, this time, she didn’t flinch when he brushed hair out of her face. 

“What if it’s not OK, Mulder?” Scully asked. 

Mulder gave her the best smile that he could muster.

“It’s going to be fine,” Mulder said. “I believe it. But, even if it isn’t? This isn’t the end of our story, Scully. There will be other…aliens.” 

Scully’s chin—scraped and bandaged as it was—was the strongest giveaway of her feelings. It quivered, and Mulder brushed the tears away with his fingers as they slid out of the side of her eyes. 

“I wanted this one,” she said. 

“I know,” Mulder said. He swallowed against the tightening in his own throat. He didn’t want to be upset. He didn’t want to give into his own feelings. Scully needed him, right now, to be strong for her. She could be there for him—she would be there for him—and she’d never make him feel bad about his feelings. But right now? She needed him to be the strong one. “Let’s—don’t give up on it just yet, OK, Scully?” 

Scully nodded her head and squeezed Mulder’s hand. He didn’t know if it was in response to some discomfort from the movements of the ultrasound wand, since he was sure that such a thing wasn’t entirely comfortable, or if it was simply in response to her feelings, but he squeezed her hand back.

“No,” Dr. Ramirez said, his voice rising. “No—let’s not give up on your baby at all. Listen to this, Mama. It’s probably the nicest sound you will hear tonight.” 

Mulder looked over his shoulder and Scully turned her head. There was little more to see on the screen than there had been when they’d done this just before they’d been sent on this case. It wasn’t the image that mattered, though, as much as the sound of the rapid heartbeat. Scully’s expression, when Mulder looked back at her, was caught between wanting to smile and wanting to cry. She settled for a hybrid of both of the responses and covered her mouth as she sucked in as much air as her lungs could hold. Mulder reached his hand out and wiped wetness away from her face as fast as his palm—nonabsorbent as it was—could handle.

As they wrapped things up, the ultrasound tech disappeared without any words. Or, if she’d said anything, Mulder had missed it entirely. At Dr. Ramirez’s prompting, Mulder helped Scully sit up and started helping her back into her clothes.

Dr. Ramirez walked over so that he could see Scully a little better.

“Your baby looks fine,” Dr. Ramirez said. “And there’s no evidence that it won’t remain that way. There’s no damage to your cervix. You have no bleeding. The sac is still intact, and the heartbeat is strong.” 

“You hear that, Scully?” Mulder prompted. From the way that Scully looked at him, he knew she wasn’t out of the woods regarding the shock of the whole thing. She looked a thousand times better than she had, though. She offered him a soft smile. “The alien’s fine. How’s Agent Scully look?” Mulder asked, directing his question toward the doctor. The old man smiled.

“I believe her diagnosis is correct,” the doctor said. “Nothing appears to be broken, and she was lucky enough to escape with nothing more than some minor injuries. The blood on her face came from scrapes that were likely caused by the airbag, but even those are already clotting well. Watch them for signs of infection, but I don’t foresee that being a problem. You should definitely see a doctor, if anything worsens, but I believe that she’s been very lucky. In the future, however, I would limit the amount of excitement you try to pack into one day.” 

Mulder laughed to himself. He liked the old man, honestly, more than he’d intended to like him—just out of sheer panic—when he’d entered the space.

“Do you have any other prescriptions?” Mulder asked. “Recommendations?” 

“Acetaminophen right away—it’s cheaper if you supply it yourself. Take subsequent doses when needed for a few days to a week,” the doctor said. “It won’t harm the baby if taken according to the label. And rest. Lots of rest. For at least a few days.” 

Mulder nodded his understanding. He thanked the doctor when the man said that they could head to the front desk, when Scully was ready, to handle some final insurance questions there, and even Scully thanked him before he patted her shoulder affectionately and left the room.

“You ready to go?” Mulder asked after a moment.

“Mulder—I had so much I wanted to talk to you about,” Scully said. “To be honest, though? I can’t remember most of it right now.” 

Mulder laughed to himself at the seriousness of her expression. 

“You suffered a head injury, Scully,” Mulder said. “Possibly more than one. Let your brain rest. Let me take over for a little bit. You don’t have to be on anymore. Pfaster is in custody and he’s going to prison—thanks to the fingerprints you found. The danger’s over for now. You can just rest. Besides—we’re going to have plenty of time to talk. We’re going to get something to eat—some more lasagna for the alien. Maybe some ice cream to make it feel better.” Scully smiled softly. That only made Mulder smile in response. “We’re going back to the motel. You’ll get some rest. Tomorrow morning, you’ll give your statement to Bocks. We’ll head back to Washington, wrap up our reports, and then you and I are taking two days off, Scully. We’ll have all the time you want to talk.” 

“Mulder,” Scully breathed out, almost like she was exhaling everything that had happened. He helped her off the table, reminded that she was wearing the disposable hospital shoes, and suddenly wishing he had real shoes to offer her. Her bag was in Bocks’ car, and it was just outside. She would certainly have a pair of shoes in there. And Bocks, Mulder was sure, wouldn’t mind not having his car returned until morning, especially given the circumstances. 

“Yeah? What is it, Scully?” He asked, dropping a hand to the small of her back and leading her out of the room and back in the direction they’d come before. 

“I’m really tired,” she said. He could hear it in her voice.

“I know you are,” he said. “And that’s why we’re going to rest.” 

“But—now that I know that our alien’s OK? I’m really hungry, too,” Scully offered. 

“Lasagna?” Mulder asked. Scully hummed.

“That ice cream sounded good,” she said.

Mulder laughed to himself. He could hear a bit of teasing in her tone.

“Well you’re just going to have to start teaching the alien, now, that it has to finish its dinner first. But, then, I’ll make sure it gets some ice cream, if that’s what it wants.” 

Mulder could never explain how much the easy teasing between them felt wonderful to him, but it did. They’d stopped Pfaster. They’d put him behind bars. That was important—their work mattered. But what was most important, to Fox Mulder, was that he was leaving the hospital with everything that was most precious to him.


End file.
